WhatAmIDoing?

Of course, the Heartslabyul housewarden carried an air of anxiety with him quite frequently. Especially you were no stranger to the shuffling of his feet or the nervous way he liked to brush hair behind his ears or adjust his clothes. Though it had lessened somewhat as Riddle had gotten used to the notion that his fond feelings for you were, in fact, reciprocated.

“Riddle” you interrupted the circles he’d been walking on the soft, checkered carpet. Riddle looked up, mid-biting his lip, and blushed as you took his hands in yours to rub your thumb on the back. “Is it something I can help with?”

“No- yes. Yes,” he said, squeezing your hands and taking a deep breath. “You- we said we’d both be okay with… exploring a bit if the mood arose, correct?”

“Mhm,” you confirmed, tilting your head fondly.

“So, what exactly qualifies as the mood?”

Ah, right, you probably should have specified. Riddle liked his frameworks clear, if they could be. And this was very, very new after all. It would be good to clarify.

“I suppose it’s when the atmosphere gets charged,” you tried to put it into words. “Like when we catch the other looking at our lips or staring into our eyes or we get… affected by each other.”

“Right, right,” he agreed with a quick nod before curling his fist into your sleeve, shifting his weight onto one foot so the other could rub against it. His cheeks were so red it reminded you of when he got angry. “And, say I was affected…how would I, uhm, have you reciprocate the feeling?”

You couldn’t help the bright smile that bloomed on your face as you nudged him to come sit on the bed with you. Riddle was so sweet and you’d gladly provide the steps he wanted even though he seemed to perform them intuitively.

“Being cute and squirmy will do the trick,” you said, leaning over him a little, Riddle instinctively leaning back, his head hitting the pillow, its white case contrasted by the red hair that fanned out as Riddle looked at you with his beautiful big eyes and a shy smile. “Telling me what got you affected might help along too.”

He’d been in the process of gently pulling you down by the front of your tanktop when his eyes widened further and he protested.

“No, that’s embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” you said as you found a stable position over him. “Won’t you indulge me?”

Riddle chewed on his lip as he seemed to debate whether to stroke your ego or preserve his dignity before finally ruling in your favour.

“...your muscles. Your shoulders. They looked nice just now.”

You grinned, rubbing a thumb over his heated cheek.

“I’m flattered. Thank you for telling me.” You felt like adding on some praise but refrained, unsure how Riddle would feel about it in this context.

He visibly gulped and you watched his eyes shift in discomfort.

“Riddle, do you want to be on top?” you asked, leaning up a little to cage him in less, but he held onto you.

“What, no, why?”

You shrugged.

“To feel… safer, I guess?”

“I feel safe,” he assured you and you smiled in relief. “Just… a bit exposed.”

You lowered back down, trying to loom less. It would probably help if your line of sight was mostly restricted to his face.

“You wanted to explore, right?” you reminded. “Would you like to be touched or do the touching?”

His beautiful blush returned and he lowered his head, but answered firmly nonetheless.

“I would like to be touched, I think. If you’d like to.”

You really couldn’t overstate how much you would love to and how happily you’d indulge him, but decided to do instead of speaking.

You laid down next to him, nudging him to turn a little so you could settle in behind him, making sure to minimise the feeling of exposure he’d be experiencing. Resting your chin on his shoulder you wrapped your arms around him from behind.

“How does this feel?”

“It’s good. Thank you,” Riddle said, turning his head back a little to bless you with a small smile.

You placed a kiss on his nape and delighted in the little, pleased shiver you got in return.

“Anything specific you would like me to touch?” you asked, open to suggestions. 

“My chest maybe?” Riddle offered. “I don’t think I’m ready for… more yet.”

“Sounds perfect,” you assured him.

Your hand wandered innocently over the button-up he was wearing at first but you quickly let it travel under it when you saw the pout forming on Riddle’s lips and preemptively saved him from having to specify his request.

He was warm and you could feel his smooth tummy flutter under your fingers, a hint of muscle poking through. Probably from the horse riding, your mind supplies. 

You let your curiosity dictate your movements, fingertips dancing lower to feel for the differences in-

Riddle gasped, grabbing onto your wandering hand with both of his, his shoulders jumping.

“Sorry,” you said softly after giving him a moment to relax his posture again. “I wasn’t going to go any lower. I promise.”

“I know,” he assured you. “Sorry, I just got spooked.”

“Don’t apologise. I’ll stay right up here, yeah?” you said, moving your hand up to his ribs and he let go again.

“Mhm.” He nodded and gave you a grateful smile.

After a bit more exploring you reached his chest and enjoyed getting a feel for it before starting up a gentle massage, moving and pressing your fingers deliberately in ways you thought Riddle might enjoy.

“That feels nice,” he said with a blissful little sigh.

“I’m glad.”

You continued for a while, happy at the little contented noises you could draw out of Riddle, as well as the way his eyes fluttered closed and the heartbeat you could feel hammering against your hand before slowly calming.

“You can touch them too,” Riddle mumbled after a while. “M-my nipples, I mean.”

You gulped and gingerly (but very much eagerly) complied, beginning to explore the little nubs you’d carefully avoided so far. It was warm in the room so they were soft at first and you had the pleasure of feeling them stiffen under your touch. You were so absorbed in the experience of Riddle’s bodily reactions that it took you a bit to notice how silent he’d gotten.

“Riddle? Is it okay?” you asked.

“Hm?” he responded, sounding a little panicked at having gotten distracted. “Yeah! Sorry, I- it feels nice. I like it. I don’t think I’m very sensitive there but I like having you touch me there. It’s comforting but also a bit exciting.”

“That’s good,” you hummed and couldn’t help but adding: “They feel so nice. I bet they’re as beautiful as the rest of you.”

Riddle’s head snapped back and you adjusted a little so he didn’t have to strain his neck so much.

“Do you want to see them?” he asked and you blinked.

“I- yeah, of course. That is, if you’d show me.”

Riddle nodded quickly, clearing his throat to downplay the smile that was forming on his lips. But he turned back around, snuggling back in your arms. 

“Not right now though,” he said. “I’m comfortable.”

They take him, under the guise of it being a fun relationship challenge, to a nesting shop, but they make him do the shopping blindfolded. He can't see the objects, he can only feel and smell them. Cater ends up with a terrible mismatch of colours and fabrics which he finds hilarious. It's decidedly a haul of not cute materials and things that are way out of fashion and pretty boring but still clashing horribly.

Alpha challenges him to try and make a nest out of these materials and Cater is all for the fun challenge. Each third year dorm comes with a small nesting room, but Cater had his original nest out in the main room, using the smaller room for storage, but alpha prompts him to try and use the nesting room. Cater agrees.

He only takes the base support futons from his original nest, and the rest has to be made only with his new materials. Alpha purposefully keeps their distance at the other side of the room. Eventually Cater shuts himself in while he constructs the nest, not seeming to even be aware of what he's doing.

Eventually, the alpha stops hearing movement from behind the door. But Cater doesn't come out. He's silent.

The alpha knocks on the door to check on him. Cater is dazed and a little overwhelmed, but the only thing pushed out of his mouth is a denial of entry. "You can't come in," he says, and he doesn't know why. He only knows that this is real and safe and no one is allowed in and he'll protect it with his life.

The alpha knows exactly what's happening, it's exactly as they had theorised, and they aren't upset at all at the denial. It was more abnormal for Cater to be so readily inviting them into his nest the first time. This is expected.

Gently, they excuse themselves to go and fetch him some snacks and water, telling him that they'll be right back.

And Cater is just sitting in his new, admittedly ugly nest alone, in a tiny room with no natural light, terrible for photography, with tears falling down his face, and he doesn't know why.

All he knows is that it feels safe and real and hidden and no one but him can see it and no one but the alpha knows it's there at all. And it feels right! Every fabric is right, it's positioned correctly, a little bizarre and haphazardly, but so correctly! Stress pours from him as the tears fall and he's getting hit with all sorts of emotions and chemicals that he's never felt before.

Hans knows the difference between armour where the expense comes from aesthetics and that which is actually useful, at least. The armour is surprisingly light, well made and moveable. But there's still a stiff layer of metal between Henry and the rest of the world: between him and Hans’s flesh.

Hans himself is in his element this evening. He swans about like he owns the room, chatting up nobles and charming serving girls. Once, it would have made Henry jealous, watching Hans pour his attention upon other people. But now that bite is gone: Hans is his, just as much as he belongs to Hans.

He knows full well that Hans is aware of this, too. It's a fight with no true sting. He may be whispering into the ear of a blushing kitchen girl, but he's looking at Henry, waiting for a response. 

Even Hans’s smiles are filthy. After the initial shock of consummation - something that left them both softly reeling - Hans is back to being his true, typical, randy self. And now uninterested in a string of bath wenches and merchant's daughters and eager ladies, the full unconstrained force of Hans’s passion is pointed squarely at Henry. Henry has never been in a joust, but he suspects the the feeling he gets in his chest when Hans stares at him across the hall is akin to the feeling of being struck with a lance.

It's addictive. Henry isn't some pure untouched virgin, but it's never been like this.

He watches as Hans detaches himself from a group of lords and saunters over. Henry lets himself drink in the sight of him, his hair falling in his face, that God-cursed waist. Hans is looking at him with equal hunger. Henry swallows heavily under his mail.

“Everything alright, my Lord?”

It feels a little odd using such formalities, but no one here knows them. They don't know about Lord Capon and his odd relationship with his page-turned-guard. They have to play a part, tonight.

Hans grins. His teeth flash. “Quite alright, Henry,” he replies. “Nothing to report. If anything it's quite dull.”

That it is. “No invaders today then?”

“Doesn't look like it.” Hans licks his lips and steps closer, lowering his voice. “At least, not yet. I am fully expecting an invasion…” he draws the word out, “upon my person later tonight.” 

Hans reaches out - Christ, it's such a tiny movement that no one else would even notice, yet it makes Henry sweat - and rests a fingertip gently against Henry's breastplate.

“So you best be prepared.”

Henry cannot manage a true response before Hans sweeps away, immediately dragged into another conversation. 

So it's going to be one of those evenings. Hans's tongue is skilled in more ways than one, but his favourite use for that particular muscle is using it to drip sweet words into Henry's ear.

Although sweet may be the wrong way to describe it. Hans speaks utter filth, and he does so constantly. It doesn't matter if they're in Hans’s chambers or on the road or in a tavern or attending a fucking feast, Hans will be there, a string of sumptuous promises tripping from his lips.

His promises are often absurd, often overblown; bawdy and keen and salacious. He is not, perhaps, the best wordsmith in Bohemia. But something about his words makes Henry trip over himself.

He takes a breath, trying to regain his composure. The chances that he'll be needed as a bodyguard are slim, but the part of his brain that is always alert is clamouring at him. Hans and his syrupy promises are of no use to either of them if they're dead.

Still, he can allow himself a little indulgence. That pourpoint really is indecent, and the new hose - which Hans claims are extremely fashionable - are so tight that the bastard may as well not be wearing any at all.

Henry shuffles on the spot, finally ripping his gaze away. It's going to be a long night.

“Henry!” Henry’s head snaps around at Hans's demanding tone. “Over here, would you?”

It seems that Hans’s requirements are for a more personal bodyguard. Henry makes his way over. Hans's smile is devilish.

It's going to be a very long night.

Henry places himself by Hans's side. Hans could be planning all manner of things: he could have detected a genuine threat, and wants Henry close. He could be showing off how important and wealthy he is to require a personal guard. Most likely, he's bored, and desperate for someone else to talk to.

The man Hans is talking to looks Henry up and down. His nose wrinkles, but he's clearly spotted the expensive armour. 

“So this is the one you've been telling me about, Lord Capon? Your bodyguard?”

Showing off, then, Henry thinks.

“Indeed it is,” Hans boasts. “My God, you should see him fight. He can do things with his sword that would have a man on his knees, begging for release. A relentless swordsman.”

He catches Henry's eye. Hans gaze flicks down: eyes, sword, the spot where Hans damn well knows Henry's cock is half-hard behind layers of metal and cloth.

“Is such protection required at a simple banquet?”

Hans turns back to his new friend.

“You are clearly uneducated in the banquets I have attended in the past,” Hans grins. “He is absolutely required. Him and his sword.” He glances again at said sword. “I hope you brought some oil for that thing. Would hate for you to go in unprepared.”

“Absolutely,” Henry responds. “Nice and slick, sir.”

The other man doesn't seem to realise what's going on.

“Well done on finding yourself such a capable man,” he says, ignoring Henry entirely. “If only we could all be so well-guarded.”

“I count myself extremely lucky,” Hans says, preening a little. “Come, let's find more wine.”

As he leads the nobleman away, he shoots a look over his shoulder back towards Henry. He smiles, then in a slow, languid movement licks his lips.

Henry grips the hilt of his sword a little harder and follows him.

It's a short while after that Hans is sauntering towards the tables, where their hosts have laid out a fine spread. He looks at the morsels on offer, then, with deliberate slowness, takes an overripe plumb between thumb and forefinger and pops it into his mouth. Juice drips slowly down his lip. His wine-darkened tongue darts out to chase it.

Not once does he break eye contact.

“Now that looks like something I want in my mouth…”

Henry stills as Hans leans past, reaching for a plate just behind him. Hans steps closer, bending down in such a way that when he speaks, only Henry can hear him.

“Although I can think of one thing I’d prefer to have my lips around,” he says. “But the filling isn't nearly as sweet.”

He rights himself, a kolach in his hand. No one else is around: no one close enough to eavesdrop, at least.

“How long do you think it would take them to notice,” he drawls, “if I dragged you behind that curtain—” he gestures with his head, but Henry can't break his gaze— “And got on my knees for you? Do you think they’d hear you moan?” 

Hans grins. God, those teeth, that forked tongue behind them. Henry can hardly breathe. It takes all his self control not to tug Hans into a kiss right there and then; to Hell itself with their unsuspecting audience. But he tightens his shoulders, sets his feet, focuses. Still, it feels like there’s a fucking fire in his belly.

Before he can mount any suitable reply, Hans leans back. He hasn’t moved that far away, yet it feels like miles.

“Bit hard with all this on, though.” Hans flicks a nail against Henry's armour with a ping. “And they'll definitely notice if you take all that off. Some poor bastard will trip over it.”

“I suppose you'll have to wait,” Henry mutters, finally regaining the ability to speak. 

“Not so fast,” Hans laughs. “I bought this for you for a reason. It's got plenty of movement in the knees, I made sure of that. Your cock might be covered, but your mouth—” he looks at Henry’s mouth like it's a sugar-coated tart, ready to bite— “is perfectly serviceable.”

Fuck. Henry wishes he were as quick as Hans in this game; Hans can tease and tempt like there’s no tomorrow, but Henry’s attempts to riposte often get smothered by the fog of lust that Hans inevitably leaves his mind swimming in. Before he can respond with much more than a mumble, Hans gives him an enormous smile and heads away from the food.

“Come on, bodyguard,” he calls over his shoulder. “And grab something to eat, will you? I don’t want you complaining about how hungry you are later.”

Henry does as he’s told.

It continues like this all night. Hans is always cockier when he’s bored, and this evening - stuck with people whose most interesting stories are about escaped pigs or fucking taxes - he is extremely bored. He gets even bolder, waiting until whoever he’s speaking to has only just turned away before leaning down and muttering something to Henry, voice low and dark:

I wonder how this wine would taste licked off of your neck? 

I hope you can remember how to do that thing with your fingers.

I wonder if you’ll still call me ‘My Lord’ when I’ve got my hand wrapped around your cock.

It’s terribly risky, Henry knows - any one of the guests could hear Hans and call him out. But then again, who would argue with him? Who would risk the ire of the Lord of Pirkstein over what could easily have been a misheard command? And who would risk the ire of his bodyguard? 

That, he suspects, is why Hans does it. It’s the risk. He loves playing the part, getting away with something, being something other than the men around him. He loves riling Henry, too: loves heating his cheeks and boiling his blood and getting his prick stiff without even touching him.

He’s lucky that Henry loves it just as much.

The evening is, at last, coming to a close. Drunken nobles are stumbling to their rooms and horses, the hall thinning out. Hans is preparing to make the final rounds: a memorable goodbye is more important than a generous greeting, after all. He’s chatting to an elderly widow, who is keen to take him to talk to someone before he leaves, when he pauses before she can drag him away.

“One moment, my good lady. I just have something to tell my bodyguard: one can never be too careful, after all.”

She’s heard of Hans’s previous adventures. She gives him a knowing smile. “Of course, Sir.”

Hans quickly darts forwards, angling his head down towards Henry’s ear like a man bestowing a deeply important and thus, utterly secret, command.

“When we return to my room, I'm going to ride you harder than you ride your fucking horse.”

And then he lets the widow lead him away without a look back. Henry feels as if he is cooking beneath the armour. He needs to get it off before he bursts into flame. But all he can do is stand there like a fucking statue, waiting for his lord to finish his business. Every hair on his body is on end, every nerve ending alert, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry. He’s thankful, yet again, that the length and thickness of the gambeson beneath his armour conceals how obviously aroused he is.

Finally, finally, Hans does one final, maddening round of the room and comes to join Henry’s side again. He gives him a look of contrite innocence. Henry isn’t sure if he’d rather slap it off or kiss it off.

“Shall we?”

Henry doesn’t need telling twice. He’s close behind Hans all the way through the courtyard and up the staircase and into the guest chambers that Hans has been given for his stay. He wonders if Hans can feel the heat coming off of him, radiating out of his skin and off of the armour like it’s been warmed by the sun instead of the burning in his belly.

“So!” Hans claps his hands and turns around as soon as Henry has locked the door behind him. “Dice?”

Henry makes a low noise in his throat. Hans laughs.

“You’re so easy, love.”

He makes his way over, slowly, languidly; like a cat stretching in the sun. He runs a gentle hand down Henry’s jaw. It’s not nearly enough. Henry grabs him before he can resume his teasing, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into a desperate, breathless kiss. Hans hums, allowing Henry to manhandle him, held against the sturdy metal of his armour.

The fucking armour.

“Can—” Henry breaks the kiss. “Can you help me get this stuff off?”

Hans grins. “Of course.”

He steps back. He does— nothing.

“Hans?”

Hans has that sly look back again. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“How good it makes you look. Do you think you could fuck in it? Asking philosophically, of course.”

Right now, Henry doesn’t feel like he can even breathe in the armour. “I don’t know,” he says, simply.

“Maybe we should test it out.”

“Hans.”

Hans is back on him, back into the push and pull of this little dance. He kisses Henry again - softly, this time, dragging a hand around to the nape of his neck and tangling in his hair. He smooths his other hand down Henry’s armoured chest, grasping at the gambeson beneath. Henry can’t help but laugh; he won’t have much luck against the armour, no matter the strength of his desire.

“You won’t be able to—”

Hans is on his knees. The floorboards thud beneath him. Henry’s legs are dressed in hose and plate, but that doesn’t stop Hans. He reaches beneath the fabric of the gambeson, tracing his fingers beneath the edges of the armour, cupping Henry’s balls and his straining cock; or what he can cup, as trussed up as Henry is.

Henry’s breath comes out in a gasp - Hans - but Hans does not stop. He coaxes Henry even harder, apparently pleased with himself.

“You know,” he says, “I think you could fuck me like this…”

“Hans—”

“What was that?”

“Lord fucking Hans, help me out of this god damned armour so I can fuck you.”

“Oh alright.”

He stands again, swift and sure. He looks downright delighted with himself. And, Henry can tell, now they’re face to face, just as flushed and eager as Henry feels. He doesn’t draw it out, this time, but reaches up and quickly sets to work on all the straps and buckles keeping the armour in place. As it loosens around him, Henry sags, finally free, finally able to breathe. Hans even gets back to his knees to remove the leg plate, tossing it aside with a lack of care that does not match how much he’s been bragging about the expense of it all.

Now dressed only in his hose and the light undershirt that he’d worn beneath the gambeson, he tugs Hans to his feet and pulls him to his chest. Henry can feel him at last; feel the soft warmth of his body, the lithe brush of his hands. He buries his face in Hans’s neck, nipping and nibbling and coating it in little kisses. He grabs his waist, the fine fabric sliding beneath his hot palms. It’s too much to bear after an evening trapped in that maddening armour with Hans’s words pouring into his ear.

They’re both stripped in moments, the too-tight hose bundled on the floor beside Henry’s armour.

Hans slings a leg over Henry’s thighs. He perches atop him like a lord, his cock jutting, his strong arms flexing.